


Exeunt/Enter

by Leyenn



Category: Star Trek: Voyager, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janet wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cdybedahl for Multiverse 2005.

The last thing she remembers is the darkness, and the first thing she feels is the light. It's bright, pressing down on her eyelids. She groans.

"Mmmm... where am I?"

"You are in space," a voice says from the next bed. She can just catch a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye. "Aboard the _Voyager_," the voice continues. "We are currently in sector fourteen-beta, the Argori star system. In three minutes we will be in orbit around Argori Twelve."

The voice is calm, clipped, as if English is not quite her - it is at least definitely female - first language, or perhaps she just doesn't speak much to strangers. It's speaking gibberish, but at least it's a sound.

"_Voyager_... I haven't heard of it." She's used to her head being clear, but now the world seems to revolve the wrong way. "Is that a new ship they haven't told me about yet?"

"Perhaps." There's a pause that sounds well-considered. "You have slept for a considerable amount of time."

She groans again. Rolling her head to the side lets her look around just a little; no one seems to be around to object, so she does it again more slowly, trying to take everything in. Her observational training works in mysterious ways, picking out details. The room is warm, looks comfortable enough but seems to be filled with black panels blinking nonsense at her. The voice belongs to a woman five feet or so away, blonde and dressed in black-and-grey, figure that can't _possibly_ be Human, longish tousled hair on an uncomfortable-looking pillow. She realises she's lying on the same.

"How much time?"

The young woman says completely still and still manages to raise an eyebrow. "Approximately three hundred seventy-three years."

  


*

  


It must be hours since her companion spoke. It's been silent since then, although she isn't sure she'd have noticed a cacophony over the words still rattling around in her head. _Three hundred and seventy-three years?_

What must have happened, her logical mind insists, is simple. She was expendable. Everyone is expendable if the situation gets bad enough. She's a good doctor - hell, she's a great doctor - but she's still just a doctor. Maybe they had to choose between her and Daniel, her and Sam, her and Teal'c or Jack or Jacob...

She's alone. She's aboard the '_Voyager_', wherever that is, because it's surely not any _Voyager_ of her time. It's a lovely name for a ship, some tiny part of her thinks, the choice would bring a smile to Sam's face. She tries to imagine it. _Not Goa'uld, obviously. No gold. Is it an Earth ship?_ Did the Prometheus give flight to generations of ships, each one being less clunky and military than the last, until they bred something that looks like the inside of a private hotel instead of an infirmary?

"Seven," another voice intrudes on the silence, and she - Janet, she must remember her name is Janet, Fraiser, Janet Fraiser, she must hold that, it may be all she has - she wonders for a moment why someone is counting, until her companion turns her head and she realises it must be a name. Or a rank?

Her companion sits up and begins to tidy her hair, and a thrill of worry runs down Janet's spine at a glimpse of metal, spider-like, spread against her neck. To a doctor's keen eye - even one three hundred and seventy-three years out of place - it's clearly embedded beneath her skin, an implant of some kind. Janet Fraiser has Experience with These Things. An implant, a sterile room, a number for a name.

Perhaps Seven is a prisoner.

Perhaps she is a prisoner.

She wishes Sam were here.

  


*

  


After Captain Janeway has assured her she's free to go, for the fourth time, she asks to go home. Experience has told her that's always the telling question.

In this case it tells her things she isn't sure she understands, like the way Janeway's expression becomes a touch relieved or her lips quirk, as if that question means something different in the language of this century. Or maybe just here.

"Where is home?" Janeway asks, along with, "Would you like some coffee?"

Coffee. Sam takes it with cream unless she's working late. If Daniel's isn't black he'll sulk until the Colonel swaps. Jonas preferred choc milk, but he took coffee with a heap of sugar to fit in.

"Yes," she says, tired and pleased for something familiar. Janeway hands her a mug. It looks like commissary issue. She didn't see where it came from. Maybe she doesn't want to see just yet.

"Home?" The Captain sits beside her. She blinks and starts. Outside an expansive window - _why doesn't it shatter, why don't I suffocate?_ \- is a huge planet, dark, looming green, swirling with thin blue-white clouds that look very much like Earth, she imagines, though it's still fuzzy whether she's ever seen home from above the skies like this.

"Colorado," she murmurs, tries to cover the shake in her voice with a sip of coffee.

"Springs?"

She stares. "Yes. How did you-"

"Bloomington, Indiana," and Janeway has an easy smile as if she's obviously remembering. "I visited the Cheyenne Museum with my father once or twice, when he was home on leave-"

"_Museum?_"

She'll remember later that she said it, but she won't have heard herself speak. Blood rushes to her head and the world is spinning and something hot and wet is soaking the coverall they gave her. She hears the Captain shout. "_Seven!_"

The room is empty, the door is airtight, she doesn't see how anyone will hear.

  


*

  


Seven explains the communicator pin to her, and the replicator - _ha, ha,_ she thinks, not laughing - and how the computer will realise to let her into this cabin and no one else's; she talks through the forests of Argori Three, a broken leg that Janet can't believe in when she walks so smoothly, finding a Human woman buried among old ruins, and a lot of medical jargon that Janet drowns in not understanding.

Politely, she asks if there's anything else Janet would like to know.

Janet asks, and Seven explains the broad concepts of warp travel, the United Federation of Planets, with accompaniment on each of the nineteen races she might encounter in the corridors and shouldn't stare at. Janet asks and Seven explains the half-dozen she definitely won't find, and shouldn't stare at but should run away from, preferably very fast.

Seven explains everything she wants to know and a lot more besides, from Bloomington, Indiana, through the Third World War to the Delta Quadrant and then the Dominion, from the Borg to Starfleet to time-travel and how the betterment of Humanity makes up for not being paid.

It makes her uneasy. Information like this is supposed to be classified. She didn't know how she would, anyway, but Seven keeps talking and Janet starts to imagine maybe she isn't going home.

  


*

  



	2. Chapter 2

"I died," she says, loudly, in the middle of the mess hall.

Seven turns to her and seems to be suppressing a smile. B'Elanna chuckles and shakes her head without even looking up from her soup or breaking her well-established rhythm of multi-tasking. Miral giggles and keeps bouncing on her knee.

"May I ask when?" Seven asks, as if there's nothing unusual about someone suddenly admitting they've remembered how they ended up three hundred and seventy-three years, two months, sixteen days and twelve hours outside their own time.

"Three hundred seventy-three years, two months and sixteen days ago," she says, trying to match that congenial tone, since Seven is always so calm and she wishes she could have that back.

"Ah," B'Elanna says. Miral squeals a little. Janet wonders if Klingon babies are smart enough to understand topics like this at such a tender age, only to realise she still doesn't know what that tender age is, exactly, so she asks. The crew on _Voyager_ must think she's got a hell of a temporal hangover the way she skips around thoughts like this, but she can't help it, she wants to know everything, because she's still looking for the thing that will make this really, really _real_.

"Five months," B'Elanna says.

"And three days," Seven adds. B'Elanna gestures with her spoon and a nod, that's right. Five months and three days.

_Cassandra is eighteen in six weeks._

Whatever she's still looking for, that wasn't it.

  


*

  


Earth from space is...

"Beautiful, isn't it? I can never get used to seeing it again."

Janeway is a kind, warm, funny woman, all right on the surface - not the kind of person Janet expected would end up captaining starships, based on her own experience. She thinks about oh-so-tough Marines strutting around the _Voyager_ and smiles to herself, shaking her head.

"It's lovely," she replies honestly.

Janeway hands her another newly-created coffee mug full of newly-created coffee. "You didn't think you'd come home again, did you?"

Janet smiles, at her. "My home is a museum. You told me so yourself."

"The town is still there," Janeway starts, then sighs. She's as perceptive as the Colonel was - _is_ \- in his own way. "But you're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't try and make this easier for you."

This wasn't it, either. "No, but thank you for trying," she says, still honest, but certain the Captain can hear how she feels. _Sam always could._

  


*

  


The psychiatrist is a friend of a friend of a friend, a woman about her own age with longer hair and very dark eyes who sits primly on the couch and watches her pace around. She does that for a few minutes just to play up.

"Doctors always make the very worse patients," the woman says in a voice that seems to project warmth and security, a sense of-

"You're not Human, are you?" she asks. The woman smiles.

"Not entirely. Didn't they tell you?"

She sinks onto the couch. "No."

"I'm half Betazoid. An empath."

"You read minds?" Despite herself she's intrigued. That's what lets her remember herself, being intrigued by the little things.

"Those I'm very close to," the woman admits. Such straightforward honesty is so unnerving. "My name is Deanna. And you are Janet Fraiser, M.D., from Colorado Springs in the year two thousand and four."

"Actually I'm from Missouri. Little town, you wouldn't have heard of it."

Deanna smiles. "Catarin."

"Pardon?"

"The 'little town' where I was born."

"Oh." She thinks about that. Maybe it's the little things like that that make a world like this real. "Buckner. Near Kansas City."

"I've never heard of it," Deanna admits. "Would you like some coffee?"

  


*

  


Seven smiles at her in a busy tourist-trap open-air restaurant on the beach that Deanna recommended with a little glint of understanding in her eye. Janet isn't sure that woman really is a psychiatrist, or maybe they just have different standards for these things in this day and age. She tries to imagine Mackenzie in Starfleet. It comes as a mild shock that his face is hazy in her mind.

"Was your session productive?"

She thinks about it. Doesn't really feel like she just came from a nuthouse. "I don't really know, Seven."

"I am often uncertain myself after such appointments." Seven attempts another smile and commands this one a little more successfully. "Kathryn says that's a good sign."

Janet smiles, imagining the Captain saying that, and nods. It makes her feel a certain relief that she's not the only one.

"I am also sometimes an outsider, here." Seven's voice is soft from the taste of the wine - a good vintage, apparently, and it damn well should be since they've drunk two bottles of it between them. "This is not the world we intended to live in, I don't think, either of us."

"No." She can agree that, reaching out to squeeze Seven's fingers, the sound of the waves reminding her of home. "But at least it's a good world."

Seven holds her hand as if she's been wanting to do that all evening and was just waiting for when to start. "Yes, it is that."

  


*

  



	3. Chapter 3

She kissed Sam once, when they were both a lot more pissed than this, sprawled out on the deck behind the Colonel's house and listening to him and Daniel inside arguing or fucking, she couldn't quite work out - can't quite remember - and she'd leaned away just to try and shut out the noise, anyway Sam was right there, it really was a sexy idea if they were fucking, Daniel with his adorable little frown as the Colonel would drag his pants down and tongue him roughly, so she'd just made the best of it and rolled onto Sam's stomach with a sort of probably-possibly I'm-gonna-kiss-you moan -

"I think I'm drunk," she mutters, and kisses Seven again. It's only fair to let her know.

"I know you are," Seven corrects her matter-of-factly, but it doesn't seem like she minds. "I shall congratulate Captain Picard on the finery of his vintage."

That sounds really, _really_ funny. Janet giggles. "'Finery' isn't used that way," she mumbles into Seven's mouth, pretty sure she's right.

Seven puts a hand to her face and strokes her cheek with metal fingertips. "Perhaps not..."

There's a bedroom. Or maybe it's a couch. Either, or, anything soft will do. Seven's fingers are hard and smooth and it comes as quite a shock how Borg finery is used. She's at least a little bit certain that if the Borg have laws then Seven touching her like _that_ with - _that_ \- is against - probably all of them -

  


*

  


Deanna suggests a session on the beach might be more familiar for her, since it's not scheduled to rain for another eight hours. The sun is shining, the waves are sparkling - clean sea water, that's weird, too - and it does feel familiar. Very. She spent her childhood holidays less than a hundred miles and more than three hundred years from this beach.

She worries what she's doing here. In the hot light of day she looks around at all the pretty young couples around her, all young and carefree and vital, and wonders what Deanna's going to think. It's the first time she's been a little afraid to ask something like that. Maybe if she just doesn't think about it, the way she did with Sam...

"I had another friend once who worried the way you do."

Perhaps she should've known this wasn't like Sam.

She watches Deanna sit down. "The way I - another friend?" Why is she surprised by that?

Deanna's eyes ask her the same question. "I consider us friends, Janet. Don't you?"

She smiles. Yes. Yes, she does. "What happened to her?"

Deanna shakes her head. "Oh, she died, a long time ago."

Janet looks out at the ocean. "I know how that feels."

"Strangely enough she got over it." She must look confused because Deanna's smile widens. "A good friend told me that she saved the galaxy. And," she sounds so very careful - _she's definitely not a psychiatrist_ \- "she had a daughter."

Her breath catches in her throat. Cassie.

_If only, if only. If only._

Deanna hugs her - _not any kind of psychiatry I've ever heard of,_ she thinks, dimly, _must be a new branch_ \- and rocks her a little while she's sobbing. She cries for hours and hours and hours, it might even be days. She's very glad Seven isn't seeing this.

Finally she has to stop, if only physically, and Deanna asks, "Would you like to find out what happened to her?" It sounds like she's said it before.

  


*

  


Cassandra Fraiser, B.A., taught ancient history and alternative religions at three universities before moving back to Colorado Springs, marrying twice and having a child, a boy. Daniel Jack Samuel T Fraiser, _M.D._, by virtue of his mother and some unknown uncle was in the audience at the public unveiling of an ancient Egyptian artefact three years before the start of the Third World War.

There aren't any records for a while after that, but that's somehow okay. She needs some time anyway.

  


*

  


Seven gives her gifts, introduces her to friends, takes her out to dinner every night. When she gets uncertain Janet has to remind her it's flexible, this dating thing. Seven is tall and fierce and gentle, reminds her a lot of Sam... but she's still learning, which reminds her a little of Daniel, always trying, never quite there but always a little bit closer.

It's like a whirlwind romance when she's not even got the world to stop moving yet. She feels like a prize fish, if fish could be caught by mutual agreement.

"I think you're good for her," the Captain says. Janet smiles.

"I'm glad you think so."

"I think she's good for you, too."

She thinks about that, about what's happened and happening and is going to keep happening to her, she thinks, for the rest of her life. She thinks about how that feels.

She talks to Deanna over subspace, _Voyager_ out past Tellar V and the _Enterprise_ speeding toward the Romulan border. Deanna introduces her to Beverly Crusher, even to Jean-Luc Picard, to Will Riker with the promise of a double-date next time they meet up.

She prints a picture of Cassie, the earliest she can find - very early twenties - and another of the grandson she's outliving by three hundred seventy-three years, six months, twenty-eight days and counting. Both of them oversee the medical texts on her desk. Seven sketches for her from her memories when she can't find any of Sam and Daniel and Teal'c and Jack. Those hang on the wall, in her quarters, along with a holograph of the party three weeks' ago in the mess hall where she's laughing in Seven's arms surrounded by the crew.

_Good,_ she decides, curled up against Seven's skin and metal, in bed under and among the stars. _Painful, but good._

It's _not_ her world, but it's a good world, a better world that maybe she helped build in some little way. It's a world where she's alive, and things could definitely be worse.

  


*

  



End file.
